


Better Than Morphine

by Miss_M



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: The anesthetic had Ron floating on his hospital bed, his head feeling somewhat heavy, and the bullet wound in his side barely registering as a sore spot. Also, he had an erection.
Relationships: Ron Stallworth/Flip Zimmerman
Comments: 27
Kudos: 84
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Better Than Morphine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ninety6tears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninety6tears/gifts).



> This is an extra treat. I own nothing.

Ron’s only prior experience with anesthesia was when he’d had his tonsils out. He’d woken up groggy and with a strange, disembodied ache in his throat, and his father had scolded him for whining and acting soft in front of the white nurses.

Whatever they used at Penrose Hospital had Ron floating on his bed, his head feeling somewhat heavy, and the bullet wound in his side barely registering as a sore spot. Also, he had an erection. Cracking his eyelids open revealed that it was pitch dark in his hospital room, so at least no one would notice.

“You’re late. You were supposed to wake up an hour ago.”

Ron blinked rapidly, his eyes gritty, the thick darkness in the room resolving into bars of light from a streetlamp coming in through the blinds, his legs covered by a white sheet, a door and window overlooking a hallway to his left, and someone tall rising from a chair by the door, a black outline against the dimmed lights in the hall. 

He recognized Flip’s voice before his brain connected the height, the outline of the body, the way Flip carried himself to a name, a face, an identity stored in Ron’s memory.

“Sorry,” Ron managed. He really needed a drink of water. “Won’t happen again.”

Flip didn’t laugh – a loud exhalation was all the reward Ron’s effort at humor got. Flip came closer to the bed and stood looking down at Ron, the light through the blinds cutting him into strips of shadow and pale skin and red checked shirt. 

“How’d they let you stay here this late?” Ron asked. A glance at the hallway outside his room showed no nurses walking past, not even a janitor pushing a mop. He’d been shot in the early p.m., had Flip stuck around all that time?

Flip’s lack of response dragged Ron’s attention back from attempting to guess the time. He tried to make out Flip’s expression in the low light.

“I told them I was your brother,” Flip said finally, his tone as flat as it usually was unless he was very worked up. “Only blood relatives allowed after visiting hours.”

Ron blinked, but nothing became clearer. “My… brother?”

“Yeah. Rob.”

Whether Flip was fucking with him or being dead serious, Ron had to smile. “Ron and Rob Stallworth? Papa was a racial rolling stone and had no imagination when it came to naming his offspring? The nurses bought that?”

Flip shrugged and sat on the edge of the mattress. He sounded like he was smiling too. “What were they gonna do, accuse a cop of lying?”

Ron laughed, though not for long. The contraction of his stomach muscles tugged on the stitches in his side, and he swallowed a pained moan, his hand going to his wound under the sheet, the hospital gown, and thick bandages. His dick twitched but showed no sign of giving up the fight.

“Don’t…” Flip made a gesture like he was about to catch Ron’s hand in midair, but he stopped himself, his hand and Ron’s both hovering over Ron’s side. “Clean through and through. Surgeon said you’re a lucky son of a bitch.”

“I don’t feel very lucky.”

“Well, if that moron hadn’t hit you, he would’ve hit me. I’m feeling lucky for both of us.” 

Ron looked from his bandage-thickened side back to Flip’s face, his night vision good enough by then to make out Flip not knowing where to look or quite how to arrange his features. 

“Sergeant’s making noises about bulletproof vests becoming mandatory outside the station,” Flip said, looking at the edge of Ron’s pillow, beside his face. “Chief Bridges said budget cuts.”

Ron attempted a snort, which hurt only a little less than laughing. “Sure, if some stickup man kills the Colorado Springs PD’s own Jackie Robinson, no one could say you didn’t give integration the old college try.”

Flip looked at the empty hallway. He sat hunched on Ron’s bed, hands on his knees. “You gonna do something about that?” he said brusquely, gesturing at Ron’s body without turning his head to look. 

Easier to give Ron a hard time for being hard in a hospital bed than to get into a wrangle over departmental bullshit. Ron knew it, but it still irritated him. He sank back into his pillow, raised and dropped his empty hands by his sides, twin dull thumps against the mattress. “I just got shot. You do something about it, if it bothers you.”

Flip looked at him, the half of his face bathed by the dim light in the hall looking wary and sharp, like he’d used to look whenever he headed out for a Klan meeting. “You serious?”

Ron hadn’t been, not really, he’d said it at least half to bust Flip’s chops and half to shore himself up, but now he _was_ serious. He put on a cool-cat tone because he knew it would piss Flip off but also snag his attention. “Come on, man, give a brother a hand. Ain’t nothin’ we ain’t done before.”

Flip shook his head and scanned the empty hallway for a second or two, even as he half turned where he sat, so his upper body was twisted toward Ron and he could prop himself up with his left hand planted on the mattress by Ron’s side. “Jacking off side by side on your couch does not constitute sexual contact, rookie. We’re gonna get fucking caught.”

Ron let that _rookie_ go. He felt sort of mean and a lot eager for Flip to touch him already, as he smiled and said, like a challenge: “Better make it quick, then.”

Flip stared him down for a long moment, neither of them able to see each other’s eyes clearly, then he reached under the top sheet, lifted the edge of Ron’s hospital gown, and ran his hand up Ron’s thigh, over his hipbone, Flip’s fingers glancing against the edge of the bandage and quickly changing course. 

Flip ran his fingers through Ron’s pubic hair, combing it once, twice, and Ron took a deep breath and willed himself not to thrust his hips up impatiently. He’d never known Flip to make a meal out of anything when he could do it briskly and efficiently. Flip even beat off like he was performing a task – Ron remembered watching him from the other end of his couch, after they’d gone to see a blue movie with Jimmy and a bunch of other guys from the station.

“Wait,” Flip said just as he was finally about to wrap that big hand of his around Ron’s meat, and stood up, and walked around Ron’s bed to sit on the other side of it and take Ron in his right hand more easily. Ron almost cussed him out, but he swallowed it back down because Flip stopped fucking around and got down to it as soon as he was in position.

Ron closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open and his breath come out of him in a low, steady moan. In the dark room, he couldn’t see Flip well enough anyway, so he preferred to focus on a sensation and a memory: Flip’s hand was warm, broad, calloused from handling his gun, and he knew how to grip and press and hit that fine rhythm right away, and in Ron’s memory, Flip sat on the couch with his knees wide apart, beating his glossy, red, white-man dick with that big hand, while his head rolled back, and his eyes drifted shut, and Ron could watch his bare throat working while Flip barely made any noise.

Ron wasn’t so circumspect – his moans and the wet pummeling sound of his meat in Flip’s fist, barely muffled by the sheet, filled the room.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Flip said. Ron felt his weight shift on the mattress as he leaned forward, his breath ruffling the sheet over Ron’s chest, the better to jerk Ron roughly over his stomach, barely pausing on the upstroke to give his foreskin a squeeze. “Keep your voice down.”

“You know Imma make a big ol’ mess here, right?” Ron managed, still somehow cool-catting it while he felt that sweet twinge start to gather, from his chest to his knees, and rush to converge in Flip’s fist. He didn’t even care if he did embarrass himself in front of the nurses, come the morning.

“Fuck,” Flip said quietly, and Ron felt cool air on his thighs and crotch when the sheet billowed up, then settled back down as Flip closed his lips around the head of Ron’s dick, practically shoved Ron into his mouth and started to suck him, pulling and pulling with his fist toward his lips. Ron would have said to play with his balls too, just to be an asshole, but in his head, he was sitting on his couch, gasping and working his dick to try and match the moment when Flip’s mouth opened wide, silently, while he came, and Ron had imagined kneeling over Flip and pushing his dick between Flip’s red lips. That was in his head – how badly he’d wanted to jizz down Flip’s throat that night – while in this moment, in his body on the hospital bed, Ron was caught between Flip’s hand, and Flip’s warm, wet mouth, and the twilit sight of Flip’s head heaving rapidly under the white sheet. 

Ron was already coming when he moved his hand to grab a fistful of sheet and some of Flip’s hair under it, and he thrust up, demanding, feeling Flip gag a little, coming hard both in his memory and in his flesh, muffling his voice with his free hand, and wanting it to just go on and on.

The cold, wet feeling when Flip pulled off him and out from under the sheet, Ron’s privates again briefly exposed to the cool air, his sweat soaking into his gown and pillowcase and bandages, did little to disturb Ron’s high. He registered that his wound hadn’t bothered him at all, during. It ached now, sullen and deep, but the warm, tingly afterglow which bathed Ron all over felt better than morphine.

“Hey, Flip,” Ron said while Flip moved to the door. “You stopping here after you’re done in the restroom?”

The silence ticked by, and Ron lay with his eyes closed, telling himself it was fine either way. He could allow himself to be selfish just then – he _had_ got shot, after all.

“Yeah, thought I might,” Flip said, sounding almost relieved, Ron thought, and so Ron opened his eyes and made out Flip looking back at him, his hand on the doorknob. 

“Good,” Ron said, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt. “Brothers should stick together in these trying times.”

Flip winced a little. “Yeah, alright, enough of that now.” He opened the door, and Ron said again: “Hey.”

“What?” Irritation creeping back in.

Ron gestured at his sweaty, but mostly clean body. “When they let me go home, I’ll hit you up. I like to treat people as well as they treat me.”

Flip watched him, started to shake his head, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Sure,” he said, like Ron had promised to bring donuts to work and Flip wasn’t holding his breath till he saw some evidence to that effect, but Ron knew him well enough by then not to expect more. 

Flip shut the door quietly behind him and strode down the hall toward the men’s room, and Ron tugged his gown, which was wadded up around his waist, down to cover his dick and balls, and settled himself back on the bed. The buzz from his orgasm was almost gone, always dissipating faster than seemed possible in the moment, but the anticipated buzz of proving to Flip that Ron Stallworth kept his promises mostly made up for it.


End file.
